


Soulmate: Borat Edition

by small_talk



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Cute, Day At The Beach, M/M, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-11 22:31:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7910107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/small_talk/pseuds/small_talk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“This is the most humiliating thing that has ever happened to me. I’d rather be naked.” Stiles whined. He trailed behind Scott, dragging his feet and lugging his beach chair behind him. “How could you let me do this? You’re supposed to be my best friend, not my enabler!”</p><p>Scott didn’t look back at his friend. He didn’t feel guilty at all, the bastard.</p><p>“You’re the one who made the bet. And the one who made the stakes.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soulmate: Borat Edition

**Author's Note:**

> this was part of sterekshelter's summer spectacle ~ I was in a team with @queenofthecute, @avawilson, and @kinsbournescream (on tumblr)

“This is the most humiliating thing that has ever happened to me. I’d rather be _naked_.” Stiles whined. He trailed behind Scott, dragging his feet and lugging his beach chair behind him. “How could you let me do this? You’re supposed to be my best friend, not my enabler!”

Scott didn’t look back at his friend. He didn’t feel guilty at all, the bastard.

“You’re the one who made the bet. And the one who made the stakes.”

“Yeah, sure. Like you weren’t egging me on.”

Scott ignored Stiles and kept walking, his eyes scanning for a good spot near the lifeguards. Their spot had to be in the lifeguard’s line of sight, but not so obvious to take away attention from the little kids with floaties. Scott liked to swim safely—Stiles, of course, disparaged such a plan. Only babies and old men with unusually heavy bones swam near lifeguards. They were a couple of dudes in their prime! They could handle the waves. But Scott didn’t want to drown without anyone to rescue him. Stiles pointed out that he would be there to save Scott, but Scott thought Stiles would be the reason for said drowning.

Scott found a spot to the right of the lifeguard’s chair, before the sand dips down into the ocean. It was a prime spot, easy viewing access for everyone’s pleasure.

“You just hate me, don’t you?” grumbled Stiles as he set his chair and towel in the damp sand.

“No, I just like to see you suffer. Now take off your clothes. You can’t get out of this.” Scott looked at Stiles expectantly. Why did Stiles have to choose this asthma-ridden, law-abiding nerd as his friend? Four year old Stiles was such an idiot.

Stiles contemplated whether he should take his shirt or pants off first. The end result will still be equally mortifying, but he’d rather get there gradually. Slowly introduce his pale body to the harsh sun, rather than all at once.

“C’mon!” Scott flapped his hands at Stiles impatiently.

Stiles shucked his Captain America shirt and closed his eyes tightly as he kicked off his shorts. He could feel the wind brush up his thighs, a way too intimate touch for Stiles’ comfort.

Scott didn’t even have the decency to keep his laughter to himself. He chortled so hard he fell to his knees and had to find his inhaler. Stiles chose not to help. Scott chose laughing over breathing and had to live with the consequences.

Stiles bought the swimsuit (or more accurately, a slingshot) at Target. It was banana yellow, fitting since the technical terminology for it was ‘banana hammock’. He thought he could use it as a gag gift for his father at Christmas. He didn’t think his father knew these atrocities even existed. His face would’ve been a mix of disgust and fear. It would have been _beautiful_.

But, Stiles decided to use it as a stake in his and Scott’s stupid bet. He bet, stupidly (if that was not clear enough), that Scott did not have the balls to ask out Allison in front of Lydia and all of their disturbingly preppy friends. The loser had to wear the banana hammock at the beach. It seemed like Scott just needed the right motivation to puff out his chest and stammer out a simple yet terrifying question to Allison. Sweet, sweet Allison said yes. Stiles had to admit that they made a very cute couple. So cute that was disgusting to third-wheel on their dates. They liked to eskimo-kiss a lot, even when Stiles was in the middle.

The bet was made in March, but Scott didn’t forget about the stakes. Once the air became balmy and the sun withered what plants bloomed in spring, Scott had rooted through Stiles’ closet until he found the craftily hidden bathing suit. So now Stiles had to have this _thing_ hug his balls like a latex balloon. And that was the most covered area. The straps sprouted from his pelvis and go around his back until they joined again and dug between his butt cheeks. His very unimpressive chest showed down to his happy trail. His butt was absolutely bare. Therefore, his soulmark was too.

It was on his right butt cheek. The key to finding his soulmate was on his butt. And it was not tiny like some people’s—no, his was huge. His soulmate had a shit ton of issues. But, to be fair, so did Stiles. It made them a good pair.

A soulmate mark was an ink-black mark on any part of the body. The location doesn’t matter, but the shape does. It meant something to the soulmate; people believe that by the mark meaning something to a person’s soul mate, it will draw more notice by their mate and cause them to touch the mark. Touching a mark is how to solidify a bond. The mark itself wasn’t just decorative. It contains the insecurities of a person’s soulmate. A person will feel their soulmate’s every anxiety, everything they’re afraid of, every flaw they feel mars their skin and personality, every ‘maybe if I just don’t wake up tomorrow’. People don’t love just each other’s strengths, but also accept their weaknesses, especially the weaknesses perceived in their minds. Whenever Stiles felt his mark pulse, he always sent good thoughts back. He sent comfort, understanding, sympathy. People can’t fully communicate between their marks, but Stiles and his mate were able to just enough to let each other know that they’re not going anywhere. It always left Stiles with a fuzzy feeling, of being anchored to his surroundings and not lost to the persistent chattering of his mind. Some people—not many, but enough—have rejected their mates. For them, it’s too much; either they don’t want to feel someone’s ugly thoughts, or they don’t want others to feel their weaknesses. Whenever he thought about how that could’ve happened to him, he was always sent a wave of warmth toward his soulmate.

When Stiles was in sixth grade, Jackson, who was sprouting into the jackass he was currently, started to make fun of Stiles’ moles and his lunchbox. Stiles could’ve handled the ridiculing of his moles. Jackson called them little turds, but joke was on him because Stiles had hated them long before Jackson called them poop (“Stiles, they’re your stars.” “No! They’re just a symptom of cancer.” “Where did you learn that, kiddo?” “The internet. Duh.”). But his mom got him the X-Men lunchbox. It glowed in the dark. Not that he ate in the dark, but if there was ever a power outage, his lunchbox would be in high demand.

“You’re just a freak, like these people on your stupid lunchbox,” Jackson had sneered. Stiles promptly took his ‘stupid lunchbox’ and smashed it against Jackson’s face six times (and almost a seventh) before a teacher’s aid came to break it up. Stiles got to go home early that day, but it didn’t feel like a vacation.

After his dad dropped him off at home and went back to work, Stiles went under his bedsheets and tried not to cry. He was already considered weak by his classmates—crying would just confirm it, even if he cried in private. As he sniffled hopelessly, he started to feel his mark grow hot, and the feeling spread to his entire body. It felt like a specially-toasted blanket was burrito-ed around him. Stiles couldn’t hear a distinct voice, but he could feel the sentiments coiling around him—he was being surrounded by the feeling of love. He knew instinctively was his soulmate. His soulmate didn’t want him to hide his tears—he should be allowed to feel. But Stiles had to know that he was not alone—he had his soulmate, and they would always be there for him, even when his dad was on another double-shift or Scott was being held in the nurse’s office. After crying freely for a few minutes, he started to drift asleep. But he made sure to send a feeling of appreciation to his soulmate. That was the first time they had communicated with each other and it was a transformation for Stiles. Never was Stiles alone again. He didn’t even have an urge to break Jackson’s nose again, because he was better than that now.

Soulmate connections start at different times. Scientists hypothesize that when each party of the bond has matured enough to adequately comfort each other, that is the time they can reach out to one another. Others think it’s triggered by an emotional situation. Stiles personally believed in the former idea, because he had still been alone when he had to bury his mom.

Stiles slouched into his beach chair and tried to cover as much skin and bulge as he could. Technically, he couldn’t use anything to cover himself up. The stakes to this bet were very specific.

“Bro, I can see what you’re trying to do. Get up, stretch a little. Show off your hot bod.” Scott stood over Stiles, his hands in the pockets of his gloriously baggy navy swimming trunks. Stiles maintained eye contact as he reluctantly stood up. Scott whistled and does an exaggerated once-over. “Okay, don’t stretch too much. I don’t know if that’s going to hold all of your manhood. Never knew you were such a stud.”

Stiles flipped him off. “So what am I supposed to do? Just stand here and scare the children?”

Scott smirked. “Do you know why I wanted to go to the beach today? Why I chose this spot specifically?”

“Um, because you can’t stand being out of range of the lifeguard? Or maybe Allison is sunbathing with Lydia?”

Scott whipped his head around frantically before looking back at Stiles. “No, she’s at the mall,” he said, almost as if he was reassuring himself. “No, I thought about the best way to optimize this situation. I can be pretty clever sometimes. You laugh,” Scott remarked as Stiles snorted, “but who figured out when and where the basketball team practices for pre-season? It wasn’t easy—it involved a few bribes to Boyd—but I figured out that their captain, a very attractive Derek Hale (according to you), likes to make the team run on the beach shore by us, at around 11am. And what time is it now, Stiles? Oh, 11:10am. Interesting.”

Stiles thought he filled out the evil mastermind role of their friendship, but Scott just usurped the throne. The puppy-dog demeanor was all a disguise. Stiles wasn’t sure if he should be proud or terrified by this new side to Scott. But he could definitely be outraged, because apparently Derek Hale was going to pass them with a whole troop of sweaty basketball players, while Derek himself would be glistening like a fallen angel. Derek, a guy who could melt a chastity belt from a god-fearing christian virgin, was going to see Stiles in this blinding monstrosity. The first time he will see Stiles remotely unclothed, and it will not be including a planned sexy striptease or even any consenting parties.

Stiles swiveled around but didn’t see any swarm of unfairly attractive guys running at an unreasonably fast pace. Not yet, anyhow. He refused to blink; he’d rather let his eyes risk sand infestation than be unprepared.

Derek Hale was basically a god. This wasn’t just Stiles’ biased opinion, no matter what Scott thought. Derek Hale spoke few words, but always had a posse around him. He rarely smiled, but when he did people (including Stiles) walked straight into walls. He became captain of the basketball and baseball teams when only a junior. He tutored at the YMCA when he could and during one memorable summer, mowed Mrs. Torres’ lawn right across from Stiles’ house.

Stiles’ crush formed during freshman year biology. He sat a seat behind and to the left of Derek, and Stiles slowly (which means very, very quickly) fell for him. Derek would doodle Superman in the margins of his notes, and his neck would turn red when he had to answer a question. He became more of a person to Stiles. Not that he still wasn’t a god, but he became more tangible than Lydia—the terrifying goddess she was—ever would be. Did Stiles occasionally daydream of him and Derek having to spend a lengthy amount of time together, alone, which lead to making out and end up with them being boyfriends? Maybe. Was Stiles insanely jealous of whoever Derek’s soulmate was? Obviously. Stiles could barely imagine Derek wanting to touch his butt, which would be imperative to the whole soulmate schtick.

Since freshman year, Stiles has only spoken to Derek one time. Stiles wasn’t watching where he was going and knocked his shoulder against Derek’s. Stiles had made brief eye contact, mentally freaked out, and muttered sorry before going on his merry way and agonizing about that two-second interaction for the rest of the day.

So this entire diabolical plan of Scott’s was evil to a new extreme. Stiles hadn’t been even think Scott knew how deep his crush ran (mainly because he denied the extent even to himself), or else he wouldn’t have done this.

“There’s nowhere to run,” Scott said smugly. He was too confident. If you couldn’t run, hide. Stiles observed the lifeguard chair. It looked like a mini wooden cell tower, with worn-out rungs leading up to a wide bench on top. There was a striped white-and-red umbrella casting shade on the bench, which was definitely wide enough to hold more than the lone lifeguard up there.

“Goodbye, Scott. I hope we never have to meet again,” Stiles said, giving a solemn salute.

“What?” Scott’s eyebrows scrunched together and then his eyes widened as Stiles ran the three yards it took to the lifeguard chair. He was only a little out of breath as he scrabbled up the ladder. He could hear Scott yelling in the very near background.

Stiles plopped onto the seat victoriously and grinned at the lifeguard. The lifeguard seemed only a few years older than Stiles, tanned and lean with a relaxed smile. His head and torso was twisted towards Stiles but tilted away.

“I hope you don’t mind me crashing your solitary duty. I just need to hide here for a while. You might be wondering why I’m dressed so indecently,” Stiles chuckled and elbowed the guy. The lifeguard just stared at Stiles like he was invading his personal space. Which was frankly rude, since the lifeguard and his almighty throne were paid with Stiles’ tax dollars. Or well, the Sheriff’s. But it was technically public property, and Stiles was the public. “It’a long story. Involving, but not limited to, underestimating my best friend.”

The lifeguard did not seem that interested in Stiles’ explanation, but just ignored him instead of shooing him off the chair. The guy was wearing aviators, but Stiles knew he gave the bathing suit a good glance. Maybe he was just a little scared. Stiles would be too, in his place.

The lifeguard chair gave Stiles’ a good vantage point of the entire beach shore for at least a mile on both sides. There was a cluster of toddlers around a lump of sand (probably a sandcastle), with parents chatting nearby. Some girls were squealing as waves soaked their hair, while there was a middle-aged man just floating within their midst. Not dead-floating, just relaxing floating. But Stiles wasn’t the lifeguard, and since the lifeguard had not jumped into the waves, Stiles assumed the man was alive. Scott was a few feet away from the lifeguard chair, staring angrily at Stiles. Stiles gave him a cheeky grin and relaxed against the chair. Broken threads of the wood scraped his back, and he had to resist rubbing against it to abate the itching sensation.

Stiles lolled his head to the left. There was a swarm of seagulls at the far right of his vision, by the shore. They were colliding into each other, racing to be first. The blurry dots started to become larger, much too large for seagulls. They seemed like…men? Men with very tight swim trunks and a distinctive lack of shirts. The obvious leader of this group looked like a chiseled god, and that’s how Stiles knew he was fucked. There was only one chiseled god for him, and that was the scowly Derek Hale.

Stiles’ hiding spot was pretty good, but if Derek even just glanced up, Stiles’ bathing suit would act like a beacon of light.

A hand touched his twitching knee. “Dude, please stop,” the lifeguard said. “I wish I could. But I kind of forgot to take my Adderall? And right now is a very stressful situation.”

The lifeguard hummed in contemplation. “I can help with your nerves, I guess. You’re pretty cute, if insanely annoying. And that bathing suit doesn’t leave a lot to the imagination.”

His hand creeped up Stiles’ thigh. Oh, hell no. Stiles was not going to be molested by a slightly attractive lifeguard while trying to hide from his life-long crush. Knowing his luck, Derek would look up and see him playing an advanced version of footsie with the lifeguard, and just write Stiles off as taken.

Stiles slapped the hand away and tried to climb down the chair. His foot slipped and he plummeted into one of the lumps-of-sand-probably-a-sandcastle. He rolled onto his stomach to get up, letting the sand coat his skin like breaded chicken. The only upside of the bathing suit was that it was so tight, there was no way the sand could invade his man jewels.

“Are you okay?” Scott ran up, pulling Stiles up by his arm. Stiles glared at him.

“I’m going to say no.” Stiles looked down. There were bits of crushed up shell sticking to his sweat-slicked skin, along with a bucket worth of sand. He craned his neck around Scott and wanted to cry. Derek & Co. was getting too close. Stiles looked back down at himself, then eyed the lazy waves lapping the shore.

“Goodbye, Scott. I hope we never have to meet again,” Stiles yelled behind him as he runs toward the water.

“You already said that!”

“And hopefully this time, it’ll stick!” Stiles hollered before diving under the water, running his hands over his body to dislodge the sand and shells. He bobbed up to the surface, just letting his nose peak out for some oxygen. He was in stealth mode.

The group of basketball players started to pass where Stiles and Scott set up their chairs. Scott kept out of the way, but some people noticed him and gave a distracted wave. Unfortunately, Jackson also noticed Scott. Stiles could see Jackson trying to seek out where Stiles was. He knew that with Scott came his sidekick, Stiles. Stiles ducked under the water and assumed the dead man’s float.

Stiles had always been able to hold his breath for an abnormally long time (there was a period in his childhood where he’d have Scott time him in the bathtub and forced himself to hold his breath). This meant that other people might think he was drowning. Stiles almost deemed it time to pop back up and once the coast was clear, strangle Scott. Instead, he was jerked up to the surface by a strong hand. Stiles sputtered and was manhandled onto holding a floating device. The lifeguard was dragging Stiles to shore. Scott was standing by the entire basketball team, his face contorting between horror and amusement. It finally settled on horror.

Stiles was placed on the ground, and the lifeguard hovered over him, his whistle swinging dangerously close to Stiles’ face. He then clamped his forefinger and thumb on Stiles’ nose and leaned in. Stiles sat up, frantically pushing the lifeguard away.

“I’m fine! No lip contact needed!” He shouted a little too loudly.

Scott and the basketball team were surrounding him. Most had confused faces, trying to understand Stiles’ attire, while Jackson wasn’t even trying to hide his laughter. Once a douche, always a douche. Stiles saw a bulky shadow to his right, but didn’t even dare to look at Derek. It would be too much.

“This is too easy,” Jackson sneered. “What the fuck are you wearing, Stilinski? It looks like you took on a starburst wrapper to your balls and the wrapper won.”

“It’s called fashion, Jackson. Something you neglect to think about in the morning when you decide loafers with calf-socks is a good choice.”

Jackson stared down at Stiles, who hunched involuntarily. “Keeping it classy, Stilinski, like you always do. You’re such a retard.”

Stiles resolutely did not look Jackson in the eye. In first grade, Stiles had asked his mother what a retard was. His mother dropped the mixing bowl with cake batter she was holding and, gripping his shoulders, demanded to know who said that to him. Two phone calls later and Mrs. Howey, his teacher, was indefinitely suspended from Beacon Hills elementary. “It’s a word people use when they want brilliant people like you to feel dumb,” she told him. The school always insisted he needed learning aids, even a new school altogether. Those concerns faded as he grew older and was diagnosed with ADD, but he was still called a retard on occasion. His mother always tried to let him know that he was nothing short of amazing.

But wasn’t Jackson right, in a sense? To label Stiles as weak. Stiles was a spastic kid who grew up into a spastic teenager. He only had Scott as a friend, anyone else was just an acquaintance who tolerated him. He had no skills or any redeeming qualities; he was pretty much an asshole (even though he really couldn’t afford it, re: having one friend). He even overheard his father talking to Melissa, Scott’s mom, about how he was “still a damn handful” and how he was concerned about when Stiles goes to college. His own father doubted him.

Stiles lowered his head onto his knees and took deep breaths. He knew a panic attack was coming, and preventative measure is always the best measure. His blood was pounding in his ears, and his eyes were so tightly closed he was seeing red spots. He didn’t see Jackson being shoved away from him, or Jackson asking what the fuck Derek was doing, and Derek’s ensuing growl to get the _fuck away_ and that he’ll be on the bench for the first three games.

During math class sophomore year, Stiles had felt a pang in his chest. It started from his left pec and burrowed deeper, crunching on rib bones and slurping up his insides. It left an emptiness that wasn’t static but alive. It was a hole that was too black to be a color, but instead a movement. It sucked and sucked and sucked up Stiles’ energy. He barely made it to the bathroom before throwing up into the grimy toilet. He kept gagging even on an empty stomach, wanting to somehow spit out the black hole that was created in his body.

He had started to receive impressions; these feelings weren’t Stiles’, but his soulmate’s. She lied. _Not my mate. Fire. Mom, Dad. So close. So stupid. Don’t deserve…don’t deserve to live. Oh, God. Help. Help me. Please._ Stiles couldn’t decipher all the thoughts, but the feelings of worthlessness and shame were suffocating him. He gripped both sides of the toilet, prioritizing his soulmate over sanitation, and concentrated on the feeling of love. Love and acceptance. He pushed it so hard through the bond that he felt like he almost burst a vein. Stiles kept muttering reassuring nothings, needing his soulmate to understand that he was invaluable. The vicious monster inside his body started to abate. Stiles kept sending his love through his bond, until his head almost bobbed into the toilet bowl. He got up from his crouch, left the bathroom and walked out of the school. He kept up a stream of impressions toward his soulmate; nothing too serious as before, but more like sleepy reassurances.

Stiles could feel the monster behind his rib cage, but this time it was his own. He felt Scott’s hand rub against his back, and heard his request for the lifeguard to leave. It took a few more minutes, but Stiles lifted his head and blinked rapidly, forgetting that it was mid-noon out. The only person around was Scott; the basketball team dispersed.

“Stiles, I am so sorry. Oh my god, I didn’t mean—I just thought—shit. Let’s go.” Scott had a towel with him and wrapped it around Stiles. They stood up.

“Wait!”

Both boys turned around to see Derek jogging toward them. He had been with the basketball team, who were a few yards away. Jackson was sitting, with the rest of the team pointedly keeping their distance.

“What do you want?” Stiles asked. He was tired, way too tired to deal with this bullshit. It didn’t even matter that he was speaking to the reason of his bisexual awakening. He just wanted to change into pajamas and go to sleep. Preferably for the rest of his high school career.

“Jackson was being an asshole. I just want you to know that he won’t bother you again. I’ll make sure of it.” Derek kept looking away from Scott and Stiles, like he couldn’t stand eye contact for more than a second. His last sentence didn’t sound like a promise; it sounded like a fact.

“Thanks, but I’m used to it, don’t worry. Besides, you need your starter forward. Go Beavers, am I right?” Stiles aimed for a grin, but his taut muscles didn’t let it form into anything other than a grimace.

Derek’s eyes snapped up to Stiles’. He looked angry, like Stiles offended him. “I do need a starter forward. It just doesn’t have to be him. Just because he happens to be good at basketball doesn’t mean he can act like he lost his humanity along with his baby teeth.”

Stiles’ eyes widened. Not only was that the longest he had ever heard Derek speak to anyone, but the last part was kind of funny. Very creative. Stiles wouldn’t have pegged Derek to have a pointed sense of humor, but Stiles also wouldn’t have thought that their first full conversation would involve Jackson while Stiles wore a glorified thong.

“Well, thanks. But that’ll make him hate me even more and he’ll just get more creative. We have one more year, anyway. I can handle it.” Stiles turned to Scott. “Can we go home, now?”

“Of course, bro. Let’s go.” They started to walk to the entrance of the beach.

Stiles had his towel wrapped around his lower chest, with the end of it trailing behind him.

Stiles guessed that Derek was trying to grab his shoulder to make him stay, but all he knew was that at first he was walking away, then he was on the ground, _again_.

Looking up, he saw a Derek looking guilty, holding the towel he tore from Stiles’ body. Stiles understood that Derek just wanted to help, which would be a turn on any other time, but his emotions needed a rest. He took the towel from Derek’s hold, gave a curt nod, and turned around to join Scott.

He did _not_ expect a startled gasp behind him, then a very broad hand hand touching—no,  _caressing_ —his right buttock. He was about to shove Derek and talk about personal boundaries, when he felt a voice in his head. It wasn’t the normal voice in his head that usually comforted him—that voice didn’t have substance and it always seemed more like an impression than a sound. This voice, though, was one he heard often. Specifically, one he always heard talking back to Ms. Blake in English. A voice that was always softer than the muscular body it inhabited suggested. A voice Stiles frequently imagined saying (or perhaps, moaning) his name.

 _Hi_ , Derek said, inside of Stiles’ head.

“Stiles, are you okay?” Scott asked. Stiles didn’t even register Scott’s concerned face. He was too busy staring at Derek.

 _You’re—you’re…mine?_ Stiles asked, timidly. He was worried for a second Derek didn’t hear him and that Stiles was acting delusional, when a tiny smile tugged its way onto Derek’s lips.

“Oh my god. Oh my god. You—me—us,” Stiles’ soulmate was Derek Hale. The person who knew Stiles, whom Stiles loved, and the person Stiles wanted to love were the same.

“You wet your pants in seventh grade. That was you. The almighty Derek Hale! Wetting his pants! Oh my god!” Stiles blurted out. Scott looked confused, his eyes darting between the two.

“That’s the first thing you think of. Of course it is,” Derek said drily.

“I’m just—I’ve had a crush on you for years.” Stiles elbows Scott, “Tell him, buddy. It was embarrassing, really.”

Scott looked alarmed. He leaned into Stiles, while watching Derek with wide eyes. “Why do you want him to know that? Do you want him to kill you?”

“Scott, my bro, my naive wonderful pebble of a friend! It’s okay! Derek’s my soulmate.” Stiles beamed. He just found his soulmate. It doesn’t matter how embarrassing he is, Derek’s stuck with him. And by Derek’s smile, he didn’t regret touching the butt.

“Where’s your mark?” Scott asked Derek, staring at him with narrowed eyes. Stiles sighed; of course Scott went from frightened to protective in the span of three seconds. But he did have a point.

“Show me,” Stiles demanded. Derek’s ears turned red.

“Um, it’s kind of in a delicate place?” Derek said uncertainly.

“Is that it?” Scott asked, pointing to Derek’s bathing suit. Stiles followed Scott’s fingers. Derek had see-through swimming trunks on. No, they were better classified as short-shorts. Very tight, very short short-shorts. But he must’ve dipped into the water recently, because his short-shorts were sticking to his thighs. On one of his thighs, near his pelvis, Stiles could see a dark mark.

“Wow. I guess it’s going to take to the third date before I can touch there, huh?” Stiles asked, laughing when Derek looked mortified and Scott looked heavenward.

“What’s the mark’s shape?”

“Shouldn’t we wait until I can show you?”

“Nah, I’ll be way too curious, and I have some pretty unorthodox ways when it comes to finding out information,” Stiles winked.

Derek blushed. “It’s a shape of a willow tree encased by a circle.”

“Bro,” Scott whispered.

“I know.”

Claudia Stilinski, Stiles’ mom, always told little Stiles about how she met his father. She was with a friend, and they were going to spray paint over a kill shelter. Her friend was the artist; Claudia was just the lookout. It was Stiles’ father, a newly-graduated deputy, who found her, and only her. Claudia made her friend run through the bushes by the alleyway and had no time to escape herself. So, Stiles’ father found her next to a big spray painted willow tree, with a circle around it. He had asked her, as he was carefully loading her into his cruiser, what the willow tree and circle meant. Claudia said how the weeping willow told the story of nature’s depression over mankind’s deeds and the circle represented change. “I really don’t know what it meant; I think my friend thought drawing trees would be artsy,” Claudia had told a six-year-old Stiles. His father said that he knew she was bluffing, but she had looked so righteous and passionate in the moment he had to ask her out.

It was the reason his parents started to date and realize that they were each other’s soulmates, a love story he held onto even tighter after his mother died. The fact that Derek had it imprinted onto his body was like a corporal symbol of Stiles’ safe haven.

Stiles explained why the willow tree was so important to him. Derek’s eyes softened at the story.

“Your mom sounds like a badass.”

“She was,” Stiles agreed.

“So, what does the swirly thing on my butt mean? You know, the butt you fondled.” Scott groaned.

Derek sputtered, “I didn’t fondle it! It was a light touch!”

“You’re lucky you’re still a minor. My dad could have you arrested.”

Derek stared, unamused, but Stiles knew Derek was a law-abiding geek. His older sister, Laura, was a deputy, and Derek always stuttered around the Sheriff and refused to call him anything other than ‘sir’; his sister would always tell Stiles about the embarrassing encounters (unknowing that Stiles had a very inappropriate crush on her brother), and Stiles’ dad would always remark that at least there was one young man who respected the law. That statement was always followed by a pointed stare in Stiles’ direction.

“The mark, which is called a triskele, is my family’s personal crest. It’s not a formal one or anything, but we’ve had it for generations. We keep it pretty close to ourselves; only our family and a few close friends know about it. The tendrils can stand for Past, Present, Future or Birth, Life, Death. It’s kind of like the circle of life; because your future can become your past, and a death can lead to a new birth.”

“Wow.” Stiles was honored to carry such a symbol on his body. It meant so much to Derek; Stiles could see it by the way Derek halted around his explanation, wanting to relay its meaning as accurately as he could. “I hope your family won’t be offended that it’s on my butt. I didn’t choose where to have it.”

Derek chuckled. “They’ll probably find it hilarious. They’ll just be glad I finally found my soulmate.”

Stiles glanced at Scott, then back to Derek. “You should get back to your training. Maybe you can come over to my house, when you’re done?”

“I can always end training early for today. And I have to make it seem like I don’t know where you live.” Derek shrugged, then looked panicked when he realized what he said. “Oh, God. Just forget I said that?”

Stiles was not going to forget that. It already found a place in Stiles’ heart.

“You know where I live? This, I have to hear.”

Derek glared at Stiles, who just kept smiling at him like a smartass. Derek huffed, then muttered something so low it was intelligible.

“A little louder for the people you’re trying to talk to, please.”

“I said,” Derek spat out a bit forcefully, “you weren’t the only one with a crush.”

“WHAT.” Stiles was dead. Throw him to his watery grave, because he’s pretty sure his heart just gave out.

“Huh,” Scott said. “That kind of makes sense.”

Stiles turned to Scott. “Say what now?”

“I didn’t think much of it. But remember last summer, when you lost that bet about Greenberg and Finstock having a secret torrid affair? And you had to wear that black speedo at the beach the entire summer?” Stiles nodded. “Well, I started to notice after a week or so, that Derek seemed to always run past us. I thought it was just a coincidence. But you once bent over, I think to get our sandwiches out of a cooler, and I saw Derek slam into volleyball net. It was pretty funny.”

Stiles was not going to comment on how there seemed to be a pattern with him, bets, and embarrassing swimsuits, because something a lot bigger seemed to be going on. Derek’s face confirmed it.

“I can’t believe that you knew Derek liked me! We could’ve been doing the touchy-touchy for a year now!” Stiles punched Scott in the arm. Scott yelped.

“I didn’t want to get your hopes up, man! He never looked at you in school, so I thought I made the whole thing up!”

“The touchy-touchy?” Derek smirked.

“Shut up. You like me. Oh my god, you like me. Why? Why would you do that to yourself?” Stiles didn’t have one good reason why Derek’s crush on Stiles should be believable. Derek just saw Jackson send Stiles into a near panic attack. “

You’re cute. I like your moles. And you’re really smart? But also funny?” Derek sighed painfully. “Can I not do this in front of Scott?”

“You like my moles. I’m just—yes, we can do this without Scott. Later. At my house,” Stiles started to shove Scott toward the entrance and waved stupidly at Derek. Scott waited until Stiles was in the jeep to start yelling incomprehensible words.

“Jesus, Scott!”

“I am solely responsible for you meeting your soulmate. I’m the best!” Scott crowed.

Stiles started the car. “I’m the one who bought the bathing suit. If he didn’t see my glorious butt cheek, nothing would’ve happened.”

“Nope, you’re not taking this away from me. I’m the best bro in the entire world. You owe me your firstborn.”

Stiles magnanimously didn’t say anything. He could be gracious for the day.

\- - - - - - - - - - -

Derek really did like Stiles’ moles. A lot. He made sure to not only tell, but to also show, Stiles how much he loved them. Stiles took an unholy amount of glee out of introducing Derek as his boyfriend to his father. The sheriff cleaned his gun in front of a terrified Derek, then gave them his blessing. He said that Derek would be a _good influence_ on Stiles. Stiles protested at such slander, but was secretly happy that his father approved.

Stiles was content with wearing Derek’s letterman jacket to school in the fall and lavishing Derek with ridiculous amounts of PDA, just to see Derek’s ears turn red. He went on double dates with Scott and Allison, took Derek to drive-in movies with no intention of actually watching the film, and always used Derek’s thigh as a pillow while they just talked and confided in each other. They were even applying to the same schools—it was a coincidence, not that it wouldn’t influence Stiles’ decision. But Stiles was happy. Especially when he finally got to touch Derek’s mark.

Derek just made Jackson sit out the first basketball home game, but on only one condition. Derek told Stiles it was a surprise. Stiles sat on the bleachers, wearing Derek’s spare jersey with HALE written clearly on the back, and waited for the team to jog out of their locker rooms. He assumed that the surprise would be that Jackson had to dye his hair pink or something. But Derek’s ingenuity surpassed even Stiles’. Jackson came out of the locker room with nothing but the same banana hammock Stiles had worn that summer. During the entire game, he had to jump around. Stiles knew how that material could really chafe the junk. Stiles enjoyed the game immensely, and made a note to get the bathing suit back—it was, in fact, the reason he found his soulmate.


End file.
